Tales of KOTOR: The Hollowed
by Dante-Raven
Summary: KOTOR II: After receiving news regarding Nihilus' fate, Sion questions his purpose as he waits for his inevitable confrontation with the Exile.


Star Wars

Tales of the Knights of the Old Republic

The Hollowed

It was the still of the night when he was approached. He'd been watching the night sky, meditation no longer an option for him.

There was nothing that helped him anymore.

Only the quiet from within the large, drab grey chambers gave him some sense of purpose. He found himself without purpose for a long time. He'd read all he could from the books within the shelves that filled the vast chambers.

All he had with him were thoughts and the echoes of the library.

The night sky itself was filled with its thick green haze, and yet he found himself wondering what real purpose he had. To him, there was always a purpose.

Pain.

Hunger.

Even love.

All of them were a purpose.

Pain had served its purpose time and again, yet it hadn't completed him.

In fact, the only thing that completed him was her and the taste of her blood.

He lived to hunt her, broken and hollow as she were.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the growing pain beneath his eyelids, and he exhaled.

Nothing, not even air escaped his soft, putrid lips. As broken and healed as he was, Sion was many things, yet he was nothing at the same time.

Purpose.

That was what had driven him all along, and yet now he stood there in the large quiet halls. He didn't stand alone, however, for he knew who approached.

"My Lord," the figure said, kneeling before the deathly figure.

"What is it?" He asked in a million broken voices speaking as one.

Sion's screech seemed to startle the figure, yet he seemed determined to carry it out, even if Sion had his back turned to him.

_Intriguing_, Sion pondered, _he seems to be unwavering in his loyalty, yet cowering before my sight._ His eroded eye appeared as nothing more than a white, pulpous jelly that moved in cohesion with his one eye that shifted between yellow and black. He studied his own form, mottled and deteriorating as it was.

"I regret to inform you that Lord Nihilus is dead," he said crisply.

"When did he die?"

"He was defeated by a Republic fleet and by a group of Jedi."

"I didn't ask by _whom_, but _when_."

"Three hours ago, milord."

Sion could see his reflection rise behind him.

"You are now our unquestioned Master."

He shook his head. "No, there is another, it's faint, weak and it will continue to grow until it reaches me. Then I will crush it and only then will I be your unquestioned Master."

Not quite understanding, the figure nodded and left.

"Fool," Sion muttered, studying his decaying body. After this last deed, he could only wonder what fitting purpose would be left to him. He'd been born as a fighter, bred and honed to become the perfect tool against the Jedi—a weapon that would be invincible to the blades of the legendary Masters of old.

Where he had been the sword, Nihilus had been the shield.

Nihilus was the trump card he had used for a long time. He had learned the lesson of hunger, allowing it to grow so he too could consume the Jedi in their entirety.

Yet, compared to the other Sith, they were low in rank, until Revan's arrival.

With the abdication of the throne, and the fall of Malak, Sion and Nihilus had taken control and quickly overthrew Traya, their one true master.

With their powers combined, they destroyed the Jedi Order with tactics never used before, outmanoeuvring the Jedi and eventually tipping the balance in their favour.

Sion had never been concerned with the balance of the Force. It was merely a tool to him and now he had used his body, a decaying and emaciated form dedicated to the complete destruction of the Jedi, to its full potential. There only lay another thorn in his side, and with Nihilus defeated, that left him to crush both his foe and the thorn in one swift stroke.

Then there posed the same question: what purpose would a being of absolute immortality have anymore?

He brought his left hand up and balled his fist. The cracked and rotting skin make him appear fearsome, yet at the same time; it made him wonder what would become of his world.

He would never have anyone who could challenge him nor best his abilities, yet at the same time, he would never have a singular purpose.

He would have completed the goals that he had set out for himself, and for the first time in a long time, Sion realized he carried something with him that every Sith denied.

Sion feared his life would be bereft of purpose.

Pain had no home here, yet it kept him alive. He could feel it wanting to leave, its cumbersome weight struggling to slide off his shoulders.

The flash of lightning followed by the crack of thunder highlighted the shadows that hid much of his raw face.

He clenched his fist again and stared intently at each and every morsel of flesh that struggled to stay alive. As long as _she _was alive, he'd have a purpose.

He would always be hers, even when he ripped her heart from her chest and watched her life ebb into nothingness.

Sion would stop at nothing until Traya's body was as broken as her pride.

More footsteps approached, yet he knew who it was.

"Milord," the figure said once more, kneeling.

"Speak," Sion mustered, surprised his heart could still beat at the anticipated thought. In truth, it surprised him that he had anything that was still alive within him anymore.

"We've detected a small vessel arriving on a rapid approach vector."

"It's her," he said, touching the familiar echoes within him. The vestiges of his own bond to her still echoed in the back of his skull, yet some part of him admonished the thought of familiarity. With it bred weakness.

Sion was above such notions.

He would meet her and then crush her with his very hands—the same way he had when he blinded her and stripped her of her power.

Then, when she had barely a breath in her, he'd destroy her prized student, the vaunted Exile of the Jedi Order and take pleasure in letting her bask in the finality of her doom. "Let her arrive and let me face her personally," he screeched. After a few more moments, Sion added, "now leave me."

Once more, the figure bowed and left, his footsteps receding and echoing in the vast chamber.

He felt something alien yet achingly familiar at the same time. Glancing down, he noticed his lightsaber rattling on his belt. Beside it, he found the source of the rattling.

He narrowed his one good eye, ignoring the fact that the eyelid on his pulpous eye had long ago eroded. The blade stopped rattling as soon as he brought his mutilated hand to his chest, studying it and flexing it with each and every movement.

"I am not weak," he replied to the ever increasing silence, "and I will break any and all weakness I find. When she arrives, she will die by my hand. There will be no superior to me."

"Then let us gather our resources, my student," came the dry voice.

His eye widened and he turned about, his lightsaber drawn and flared to life. "You must be very ignorant to face me all alone, without your vaunted apprentice."

She nodded. "Who is the more foolish? The fool who walks into a heavily guarded academy or the fool who refuses to accept the knowledge that would allow him to triumph over his enemies?"

"Enough of your mind games," he growled, "I will break you once more."

She bowed, "then do it and perhaps you shall see how far you will get with the Exile when he arrives."

"I will hunt him down relentlessly and separate his life from his lifeless corpse," he replied, faltering for a moment. He studied her carefully, taking pleasure in her racing back to him, knowing that only _he_ held the key to destroying the Exile—and for once, it felt right. Something faltered in his hand, and once more, he could feel the involuntary quivering.

"Unless you realize that I've found all I could from our mutual enemy and that it is time we made a stand?" Her voice seemed filled with reward and promise.

The pain was beginning to subside and he could feel his hatred beginning to wear down. The bones inside of him began to ache all the more, yet he wouldn't allow himself to be bested—not now and not ever. Thumbing the switch, he looked at her closely, preparing to crush the Exile and then her.

"Then we make the stand together," he said at last.

She smiled and bowed. "You are wise to accept aid, my old apprentice. Let us hope that you haven't forgotten all of your lessons."

He kneeled before her, ignoring the growing weariness within him. Sion desperately wanted to find purpose again and he knew that without it, his life would be meaningless.

Fearing his virtual nonexistence, Sion found purpose and hope in Darth Traya's words.

The Lord of Pain would deliver his namesake a hundredfold unto the Jedi Exile.

Only then would Sion be complete.

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**Author's Notes: I decided to try something with Sion, who is an interesting character when you start digging. I never really did like Nihilus and Sion, yet there was some kind of inspiration regarding Sion. After all, someone who is essentially 'unstoppable' would inevitably come to the question as to what is their purpose. Meh, I'm more of a Malak guy myself, all said and done. Anyway, hope you liked it and I hope that it conveyed the question.**


End file.
